Something To Think About
by Jehilew
Summary: Rogue almost took the cure. Gambit gives her a thought to chew on. One shot.


Rogue sat on the roof, quite pissed off at the world. She'd thought to take the cure, even had the first day without her stupid power planned out (and a damn fine day, it would've been, too). Yet, here she was, sitting on top of the mansion, drinking straight from a bottle of Captain Morgan, and still covered head to toe instead of surprising her boyfriend by modelling the sexy lingerie she'd bought earlier, before she'd chicken-shitted out over every damn thing.

"Fuckin' idiot," she growled disgustedly at herself. She'd had exactly what she wanted right in front of her, and she'd talked herself out of it. Of course, she could always go back tomorrow, but she wouldn't. Not now.

She knew the instant she was no longer alone. No noise alerted her, more like just the sense of another's presence. "Go away," she snapped out, banking on her legendary temper to discourage her intruder from sticking around.

A whisper of movement, a low, amused chuckle, and he was sitting beside her, much too close for comfort. She knew that voice, she'd heard him a few times in passing. Gambit. Storm's friend, thorn in Logan's side, thief, cheat, liar, and an absolute rakehell. They hadn't been introduced, nor had they ever spoken, she'd only seen him here and there from a distance. She had no wish in her present mind to remedy that situation.

Not even sparing him a glance, she irritably jerked away from him. Though they hadn't actually met, she knew he was aware of her power, and his carelessness pissed her off even more. _Idiot's gonna get hisself killed_.

"You know, 'go away' wasn't code for 'have a seat'," she bit off sarcastically, bringing the bottle to her lips and taking a generous swallow. Just who the fuck did he think he was anyway, coming up here and invading her space?

"I know," he answered mildly, lighting up a cigarette. "But I like it here. View's real nice," he added, eyeing her up. "It's Rogue, yeah?"

She rudely ignored him.

"You could call me Gambit, if you an' me's stickin' to field names only," he mused, taking a long drag off his cigarette, gaze never leaving her as he blew smoke out the other corner of his mouth. "But nah," he went on, "you, you call me Remy."

She gave a bitter snort. "Well, I'm just Rogue. _Always_ Rogue."

"Little Roguey, eh?" He eyes her up for a moment, then grins and shrugs. "Suits you."

She finally turned to look at him, ready to bite his face off. Her retort died on her lips when she found herself staring into his startling red-on-black eyes. Having never seen him up close, she hadn't known of their unusual color.

His charming smile faded a bit and he flicked those bright eyes away. "Dey take some gettin' used to, non?" Another drag off his cigarette.

Another swig from the bottle. "I suppose."

He finished his smoke. " 'Course, not everyone does," he muttered, tossing the butt.

"Hmph. They're beautiful," she told him grudgingly.

He looked momentarily surprised, then a slow grin stretched his lips. "Beautiful, huh? That, comin' from a real pretty girl, wit' the prettiest green eyes I ever did see, I-."

She pursed her lips and cut him off. "Thanks and all, but look. I'm having a really shitty night, and I don't want company. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, chere. But I know a better way to deal with a shitty night, if you're interested."

She eyeballed him in irritation. "Knock it off, Casanova. You ain't helpin'."

He barked out a laugh. "Hey now, chere, all's I had was a friendly little suggestion to help take your mind off whatever's poked a burr up your cute little behind, but it sound like maybe you're thinkin' of something else? Something more? I could go for some of that, too."

"Shut it, or I'll push you off the roof."

He laughed again. "Sounds like maybe you an' me need a safety word, Roguey."

Her lip twitched. She couldn't help it. "Can it, Cajun."

"Yes, mistress," he replied with feigned meekness.

She rolled her eyes at him, then looked out over the school property, swallowing another mouthful of rum. She was kind of starting to enjoy his company. _It's the alcohol setting in_ , she realized. She rarely drank enough to get sloshed, but the few times she had, she'd been a friendly drunk every time.

"So, tell me, chere. Why you up here, killin' a bottle of rum all by your lonesome?" He asked, lighting up another cigarette.

She snorted. "What, you think since I didn't push you off the roof a minute ago, we're best friends now or something?"

He cocked his head at her. "Sometimes, it ain't your best friend that makes the best set of ears, neh?"

"Oh, are you the mansion's resident shoulder for all the damsels in distress to cry on?"

He popped up a brow at that. "Heh, fuck no, I ain't ever that guy, chere. But you, you ain't cryin', no?" His eyes slid over her. "It ain't a damsel in distress what kicks her own ass the way you are right now, either."

That shut her up for several minutes. Finally, she glanced over at him and snapped out, maybe a little defensively, "I was gonna take the cure today."

He had none of the reactions the others would have-surprise, judgment, or worse, pity-hell, he didn't even bat an eyelash at her admission. "What stopped you?"

She blinked. "Well, I want to _touch_ , not be _normal_."

He smiled at that. "Who says you can't touch now?"

"My mutation?"

His brow ticked up, humor in every line of his handsome face. "You mean to tell me, that boyfriend of yours ain't figured out what to do wit' you yet?"

"Do with me?" She echoed, fully offended. _Actin' like me and Bobby don't try..!_

He chuckled. "Ah, chere. You want touch? That what you want?"

She nodded. And then squawked loudly when he lightly zipped a fingertip down the length of her arm, ending with a gentle snatch of her gloved hand in his and bringing it to his mouth for lightening quick kiss.

Yanking her hand back as if he'd bitten her, she glared ferociously at him. "The hell is wrong with you? You gotta death wish, sugar?"

He laughed. "Non. Just showin' you don't need no cure for touch." He put out his cigarette and stood. "Just something to think about," he commented mildly as he turned to leave.

Rogue watched him go, then pursed her lips and stared out over the grounds, working through her tipsy little snit. What had possessed him to do that? No one did things like that. No one got that close, no one touched her. And certainly, no one kissed her, not even on the hand.

No one.

Not even Bobby _._

Something to think about, indeed.


End file.
